Chapter 2

“As you value your life or your reason, keep away from the moor.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles

I hung up with 911 and phoned Woodley, my partner on the Romani surveillance job, explained what had happened and asked him to relieve me early.

“Check. Already on my way. Should be there in ten,” Woodley agreed in his usual clipped patter.

“She just parked in front of her house,” I reported. “Be sure to run a check on any visitors tonight. She bought a huge bouquet of flowers, so my guess is she’s expecting somebody special.”

“Double check. Good luck with your friend. Give me a holler if you can’t make it tomorrow.”

My heart was beating fast as I pulled up the apps for the address of the Grange mansion. The 911 operator had mentioned Woodlawn but no street numbers. It popped up immediately - 4614 Woodlawn, a little north of the University of Chicago in the exclusive Kenwood district. Kenwood is a landmark Chicago area that’s still famous today for its stately mansions and well-known residents such as President Barack Obama, Lewis Farrakhan, and, in the past, the murderers Loeb and Leopold.

I took off, still in shock. My Auntie Elizabeth, the Scottish Dragon, always reminds me that bad things come in threes, so I tried to brace for what was yet to come.

The property at 4614 was indeed a mansion in the middle of a fashionable residential area with well-maintained homes for several blocks in either direction. But the area was an oasis of gentility surrounded by much meaner streets with graffiti, vacant properties and urban blight. In Chicago, like in most big cities, the two lifestyles co-exist within a stone’s throw of each other despite massive urban renewal projects.

Three cop cars and Tom’s Dodge Caravan were parked in the expansive circular front drive. I pulled in next to the Caravan and jumped out. The day was overcast and windy, and the raw wind gusts off Lake Michigan battered me from every direction. A cop stopped me on the verandah. I asked about Tom and explained that I’d made the 911 call.

e He H”Oh, that’s different.” He quickly took out his notebook and recorded my name, address, phone, and e-mail.

“I want to see my friend,” I asked impatiently. “What happened to him? How is he?”

“First tell me exactly what you heard on that call,” the cop, whose name was Burton, demanded.

I knew I wouldn’t get any information until I told him, so I did - hurriedly. Then Burton said with a sympathetic look, “Your friend was found unconscious at the bottom of the staircase. They already transported him to Billings Hospital.”